


Lion's Den

by mousaerato



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Clubbing, Hangover, Human Trafficking, Hurt/Comfort, Intoxication, Loss of Innocence, M/M, References to Drugs, Sexual Harassment, Underage Drinking, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-26
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2020-02-07 03:52:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18612562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mousaerato/pseuds/mousaerato
Summary: He's in over his head, but he can't let himself drown.





	Lion's Den

“…A party?”

“A _social gathering,_ ” a stern, deep voice corrected, stretching those last words with such annoyance that they nearly snapped in the other’s ear.

Akechi Goro sat in his room, hunched over a dimly-lit desk cocooned with grid paper, immaculately-written class notes, and crumpled leaflets from his observation log piled next to a few pens and nearly-spent pencils. This week was particularly grueling: an interview, another case to “solve,” three tests to study for, and two “commissions” courtesy of his boss’s “patrons.” The boy swallowed back a dry, annoyed sigh – late calls were nothing new, but did this have to come _now_?

The boy rubbed as his eyes as he ventured a safe response. “I…don’t see why I’d need to—”

He’d miscalculated; Shido’s lethally icy riposte cut him off. “It’s for business.”

A chill of dread dripped down Goro’s spine. “I see.” Shido had made it clear that he had no choice in the matter – whatever this “gathering” was, he would be there to do what was required. Resigned, Goro rose from his chair and stretched, yawning into the receiver.

“…Are you _exhausted,_ Akechi?” Shido’s gravelly voice grated against Goro’s ears like sandpaper to his skin. The real question beneath the man’s concern was clear: _Are you still useful?_

“Oh!” Goro managed in a more resolute voice, “N-not at all.”

“Good. The meeting is in 90 minutes.”

“Where is it?” It was the only inquiry Goro could safely make at this point, despite the questions already bubbling in his brain: _What are you doing? Who are you meeting? Do I need the Navigator? How long will I be there?_ It was a Thursday night of all times – Goro wouldn’t even be able to sleep in the next day.

“Shinjuku.”

Goro’s stomach sank. Of all the places he wanted to be on a Thursday night with Masayoshi Shido, Shinjuku was the lowest on his list.  He swallowed back the lump of contempt that nested in his throat and replied, “Understood. I take it we won’t be going together?”

“Naturally. Make sure you don’t wear that drab coat you always put on for interviews.”

Goro grit his teeth through the insult. The coat was something he cherished – one of the few things he bought for himself. He walked to his meager closet, asking, “What would you suggest I wear, sir?”

“Business casual. No tie, though. A plain shirt will do fine, but keep the shoes… _functional._ ”

This was going to be a potentially strenuous night after all.  “Yes, sir.”

“You’ll get the address in a message. They’ll let you in.”

“Won’t they know who I am?” asked a meek voice.

Shido _laughed._ “They’ll just think you’re someone who looks like the Charismatic Detective. Besides, no one’s going to be interested in taking pictures of you there.”

Somehow, that flimsy reassurance did nothing to soothe the acid churning in the boy’s stomach. He picked an acceptable shirt from the line of hangers and tossed it to his bed across the room. “What’s the job?”

“Act natural and keep tabs on the group. I’ll be speaking with the head of the group, but he has some suspicions about the loyalty in his ranks.” Shido paused, letting that sentiment linger in the air. “I know this is something well within your ability to handle. If you hear of any dissent, get the names. Those will be the next commissions.”

The boy smiled to himself. “Rewarded as traitors deserve, I see,” he lilted.

“I’ll see you there. Don’t be late. And if someone asks, you’re twenty.”  With that, Shido abruptly ended the call. Obviously, he had business to attend to.

For Akechi Goro, this was another performance – another run through the gauntlet, another chance to lure his target in with empty gestures of fealty and reliability. It was that thought alone that stoked the fire in his gut that kept him going as he donned his costume for the role he’d assume in just over an hour’s time. He could do it – he _would_ do it, no matter what – but contempt seeped into his heart. Shido knew what his workload was this week, but this was more important than Goro’s grades, publicity, and sleep.

The boy dragged his languid limbs to the cramped kitchen, tugging at the door and reaching for a petite brown bottle of Tiovita. He made quick work of twisting off the top, tossing it to the floor, and gulping back the faintly fruity, medicinal drink before dropping it on the floor with a clang. He’d need the energy if he was going to get through the night alive. Next –

Bathroom sink.

Toothbrush, toothpaste, _scrub._ A gargle of mouthwash – cold, stinging – _spit._ A jar of oil smeared on the face, pushed into the skin. Ice water, ice water, _ice water,_ pat pat pat— foam from a pump, water, suds to the skin – ice water, ice –

Toner. Essence. Cream under the eyes. Pat. Pat. Pat. Moisturizer.

A comb,   
a brush,   
a cloudofdryshampoo –   
_coughing, gagging –_

Finally, Akechi Goro caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He breathed. _Good._ A little less polished than usual, but for this assignment, that worked to his advantage.

Clothes. Everything – shirt, pants, socks – to the bathroom floor. A dash to the bed, to the closet, jittery hands assembling the ensemble, button by button by button by button by –

_Ready._ All that was left was to find out the location. Sure enough, Shido had sent a text 10 minutes prior: a club in Kabukicho.

Akechi Goro was far from a wide-eyed innocent; he’d given up any claim to purity two summers ago during his first Metaverse assignment. He knew what the Kabukicho district was infamous for, knew its reputation as a neon beacon of surreal revelry, and knew that “business” in that area meant meeting with certain _chivalrous gentlemen_ who controlled the district far from the public light and ubiquitous security cameras. He looked at his phone’s clock, took a deep breath, and steeled himself for another job, another performance, another obligation.  With the trains still running, he could get there with a few minutes to spare – but only if he _bolted._

*             *             *

The establishment was a narrow building, with grime-caked windows illuminated near the corners by the fluorescent pink, yellow, and mint green signage above it. Akechi Goro could hear the obnoxious low buzz of the dying blue bulbs that flickered on and off as he approached the antiquated, pitch-black door, just relieved that he’d managed to avert eye contact with any of the women and men he’d nearly encountered en route to this _seedy_ place. Shido needed this place for business? The detective had his suspicions, but...

Stepping through the doorway, Goro tread carefully down a creaking staircase, eyes darting at the walls. They were plastered in advertisements: petite girls in too-tight uniforms, gravure idols pouring liquor on their chests and stomachs, vintage cigar and playing card posters.  He could hear the faint bass of booming music still at a distance, but when he finally reached the bottom, any semblance of distance faded.

A putrid plume of acrid, faint smoke filled the boy’s nostrils, reeking of tobacco and sweat. Bright lights, mottled through glass and haze, blasted his line of vision with pulsing greens, blues, and reds. The light cast mangled, fluid shadows of forms across a pitch black floor – how could people _dance_ in this? The bass drowned out any words and left only a scarce semblance of melody.

Akechi Goro narrowed his eyes and tried to scan the room with a clinical detective’s eye. The strangeness of the place, the sounds, the smells, the _bodies –_ this was more overwhelming than the singular, zombified mass of adoring fans, and more surreal extremism of the Metaverse. From the hitman’s perspective, it was as if the two worlds fused: hedonistic, self-absorbed, and disturbing. The only thing he could do was focus, take a deep breath, and find where Shido was. He would signal where to go once they made the first contact.

He walked, eyes focused on the dimly lit path in front of him, and tried to drown out the noise.

The shrill _shriek,_ followed by laughing. “Stop! That tickles!”

“Stop lookin’ so cute then,” snapped a rugged voice. “I can’t help myself.”

Akechi Goro didn’t need to look at the scene to know exactly how it looked. He’d heard the same braggadocio and whimpering many a time at night; by now, he’d learned to look away and stay out of other people’s business. His blood, however, still boiled – _what a disgusting predator,_ he thought. All the more reason to take _him_ down.

“You’re kiddi—ah!” Suddenly, that same giggling voice sounded _afraid._

“Come on, come home with me.”

“I can’t—”

“I can get you a ride.”

“I mean...I…I have school in the morning.” The voice was suddenly shallow and small; a frightened child.

“Oh? What are you studying?”

“I’m in high school—” Her voice cracked as if she realized she’d made a fatal mistake.

“Which school?”

“I…” Akechi Goro could make out a choked, nervous hiccup. He kept walking, looking for the suite where they’d _rendez-vous_. “Kosei,” she relented.

“Ain’t that a pretty fancy school? What are you doing out here?”

“It’s my first year, and I—”

The man’s voice suddenly dropped. It was a murmur in comparison to the brasher tones before, but the laugh was still as abrasive and cruel as earlier. “You need to blow off steam? Come back with me. I’ll take you home.”

“I don’t think—”

“You don’t think _what?”_

Blood pumped in the detective’s ears; it drowned out the frightened gasp.

“….Okay,” she relented. “But I can’t stay with you all night.”

The young man bitterly wondered what crime reports would be buzzing around the police station come sunrise. No matter – he had no way to intervene in this world anyway. Material power would only come from taking down the soon-to-be elected Prime Minister, and that meant finding the _fucking room._

As he walked past a bar, Akechi Goro could feel eyes on his back like pin pricks: stinging, obnoxious, and unsettling. No matter how much he felt the needling glares of his fans, he never really got used to it. Part of him was tempted to move elsewhere, but his employer would never allow it. He endured it with a smile, a laugh, and kept moving – at least here, he had no one yet to impress.  

He turned a corner, walking silently through a hallway that was suspiciously silent. For the first time in a while, Akechi Goro could hear himself breathe. The grime and sleaze of the bar and its customers was dampened and muffled; the corridor leading to a suite seemed a thousand leagues under the sea. Its surreal calm was jarring: smooth, painted black walls; refined paintings and photos of staff and famous clientele; mementos of important events carefully hung and framed. This was not a space for the uninitiated – those common, vulgar insects that jittered around the dance floor and circled the bar like an infestation – but a place for those _above_ the common, cruder vices.

This was where Shido was waiting – Akechi knew. Even if he had not seen the door or the sturdy man guarding it, everything about the sterile, clandestine space screamed _elite._

It took only a glance and a nod from the guard to be allowed entrance; obviously, Shido had debriefed his clients of another’s arrival. Goro’s stomach churned with anxiety and sickening pride as he walked in – he was elite. _He was a member of the elite._ He savored the novel flavor of validation and power on his tongue as he tried to gulp back the nervous energy that seized him.

Shido, of course, was relaxed – even from a distance, his comfort and control of the environment was obvious. He sat at a red couch, legs parted slightly with a drink in his hand, glancing across the other deep-red, plush couch where three “businessmen” were listening to Shido’s explanations and offers. Their faces were bright – a mix of alcohol and genuine mirth, Goro surmised – and incredibly cavalier. Obviously, dirty dealings had become commonplace for them.

One of the “salarymen” caught a glimpse of him and gestured for him to take a seat with Shido. The lack of verbal communication was strange, but welcome -- silence benefitted his ruse. He complied, playing his part as he sat rigidly on the opposite side of his boss.

“…obviously, this country is failing.” Shido’s voice carried an abrasive grit. “Cohesion is practically nonexistent. Order needs to be restored.”

“And _kept,_ ”  agreed one man. “Everybody has to have their place.”

“Mhm.” The man finally acknowledged Goro’s existence, glancing at his empty hand. “Hey, do you want a drink?”

Before Goro could speak, that same icy voice continued. “Give him a beer.”  Obviously, Goro would have no say in the matter – before he could even _think,_ the third man tossed a bottle to him. Thankfully, the young man had good reflexes. He stared at the cold, brown glass, reading the text on it as his boss began to lay out the real plans.

“But in all seriousness,” Shido laughed sardonically, “as long as the people are employed, feel safe, and are entertained, they don’t need to worry themselves with the details.”

_Morals and platitudes to a bygone age_ – classic Shido, Akechi thought. He realized quickly that the cap was twist off; for the sake of not appearing _underage,_ he made easy work of it, throwing it to the carpet beneath them.

“A win-win situation.”

“Our business’s liaison with the media has done a great job emphasizing the lack of safety,” Shido continued. “And the _incompetence_ of the current government to resolve it. They’re looking to the past for comfort –”

The man smirked. “They always do.”

“The past is certain, controllable, immovable. But memories of it can be manipulated.”

_Manipulated._ That word summed up Masayoshi Shido’s singularly Machiavellian quest nicely, the boy thought. Hearing him boast about it so openly and calmly tore at his skin; to hear another man encourage it sickened him. Now seemed like the best time to take a measured sip of his drink, if nothing else. He had to fit in to get the job done, and getting the job done meant keeping in Shido’s inner circle and good graces.

The taste of the liquid reminded Goro of carbonated, stale bread. The acrid scent singed his nostrils, and his lips puckered from the sour sting. It was strangely smooth, he thought – if it weren’t for the bubbles, he might have actually enjoyed it. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Shido watching his drinking intently. He wasn’t sure what to do – take another drink? Put the bottle down? He looked to Shido with a cautious, expectant look, waiting for him to set the tone. Thankfully, Shido seemed _impressed_ ; he nodded and took a deeper drink from his own beverage, far from the gingerly sip Goro attempted, and put his glass down with little ceremony.

That was what was expected of Akechi Goro. That was how he’d have to “blend in,” he surmised: drink leisurely, confidently, and coolly. He decided to take a stronger, deeper _chug_ of the stuff and swallowed it back as quickly as he could manage – the stuff still tasted _vile._ Shido merely resumed his conversation with his potential client; Goro tried to hide the relief he felt knowing he’d passed that first hurdle.

 He kept his gaze on the two “associates” – obviously subordinates of the man talking to Shido – and mentally noted their eccentricities. They both looked in their thirties, but something about the look in their eyes was older: dim, lined, and hollow, with a certain vigilant fire. Both of them had stained, dark teeth; smokers, judging from the look of it and their voices. One “gentleman” had a light, long gash of a scar on his forearm, while the other had what he could infer were _burns_ on his neck. They looked like bullet holes – cigarette burns?

If Akechi Goro had any lingering doubts about what kind of people these men were, they were fading as quickly as the beer in his bottle. So far, nobody had commented, glared, or made him feel out of place – a good sign that he was being useful, keeping his end of the deal, and being fundamentally unsuspicious. All it would take was a few more minutes of watching these two mid-level _creeps_ to get a good feel of who they were – they were the ones his own employer had asked him to check, after all.

Sure enough, Shido and his client gestured for the three of them to leave. The last words the young detective could remember as he left the taciturn base were dismissive and casual: “Go have a good time.”


End file.
